


The Other Clown

by Disasterkins



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Joker (2019), The Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Movie: Joker (2019), Movie: The Dark Knight (2008)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-01-26 18:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21378877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disasterkins/pseuds/Disasterkins
Summary: Arthur Fleck (Joker 2019) meets his alter ego, a man who calls himself the Joker (The Dark Knight 2008). Intended as a collection of short works.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 103





	1. The Face In The Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> A work in progress. Cross-posted from my Tumblr blog sharpdressedclown.

The first time Arthur saw Him it was in the mirror above the bathroom sink. The water in the tub was draining and Arthur was toweling off his wet hair. He was still in a state of undress; a loose pair of trousers barely clinging to his bony hips and no shirt. Steam fogged the medicine cabinet mirror distorting his reflection therein as he approached the sink. Sometimes, if he stared long enough and relaxed his eyes, he could see someone else’s reflection in the foggy glass. Other people, men, women, even monsters. Sometimes he wondered what it was like to be someone other than Arthur Fleck. Sometimes he desperately wished to be someone else. _Anyone_ else.

After patting dry his hair, Arthur let the towel hang over his knobby shoulders as he stared into the mirror. Before long, his distorted reflection began to take on the shape of another man. A man who was bigger, stronger, sturdier. Arthur’s emaciated frame looked weak and fragile in comparison. If he only looked more like that warped image reflected in the mirror, people might think twice about pushing him around and treating him like yesterday’s trash. 

Arthur took a half-smoked cigarette from the edge of the bathroom sink and re-lit it. Then he stood and posed before the mirror. He raised up his arms, wrists together, elbows pointing outward, and puffed up his chest. He lifted his chin, cigarette between his lips, like men did in the movies when they were being tough guys.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he menaced an imaginary stranger. He swayed and nodded his head to an unheard beat. “…Like what you see?" 

Lowering his arms, he rolled his shoulders and swept a hand across the lower half of the mirror’s fogged surface. He could see the lower part of his reflection more clearly now but left the head and face obscured. However, the illusion of having a bigger stronger torso still remained. Arthur stared at the various bruises and scars reflected in the mirror. He’d been "accident prone” all his life but the longer he looked, the less familiar the markings became. 

Alarming as it may have been (or _should_ have been), Arthur was having fun with this fantasy of being someone else as he flexed his body in the mirror. With one finger he reached toward the glass and traced a smile on the blurry face in the mirror. Droplets of water dripped down the glass and a mirthless smirk came to Arthur’s lips as thoughts of a smile running with blood filled his mind. Soon, the mirror fogged again and Arthur opened the medicine cabinet to take out his shaving supplies: a razor, can of shaving cream, bottle of cheap aftershave. 

When he closed the cabinet, he smeared his hand once again across the mirror and squinted as something caught his eye in the glass. He leaned over, hands resting on the edge of the sink, and peered through the cleared streak of mirror. A pair of eyes stared back at him, but the eyes he saw were not his own. Arthur’s eyes were the color of stormy seas but the eyes he saw staring back at him were so dark they were nearly black. And within the darkness of those eyes was a playful light that glinted like the sharp blade of a knife.

Arthur was still as could be, caught in those eyes as they studied him mercilessly through the glass. When the “reflection” turned its head slightly and leaned even closer, Arthur was struck with the sudden realization that it had just moved on its own. The reflection was its own separate entity apart from himself. Arthur blinked his eyes in disbelief, cigarette falling into the sink as his jaw fell slowly open. The man in the mirror simply stared back at him as if he’d happened upon a peeping Tom, his dark gaze curious but devoid of fear. 

Still frozen in place, Arthur watched as the other face rose a little higher. Even in the obscurity of fogged glass, he could see that there was something wrong with the face aside from it not being his own. Now, as the mouth came into view in the cleared section of glass, he could see what it was. From both corners of the mouth ran large, worm-like scars that spanned one cheek to the other in a grotesque parody of a “smile” made entirely of poorly healed scar tissue.

The silence broke when an unfamiliar voice came through the mirror, low and unctuous, as the reflection suddenly spoke, “—_Hello there_.”

Lurching away from the mirror, Arthur stumbled over his own two feet before tumbling backwards into the bathtub. The noise was loud enough to startle his mother who yelled out from the other room, “Arthur? What happened? Is everything okay?” Arthur struggled to get out of the bathtub, his mind racing for an excuse. “It’s fine, Mom, I slipped on some water!” he shouted back hoping to sound convincing. He could hear her telling him to “be more careful in there” as he dragged himself back to his feet. 

Slowly, he approached the mirror again and touched shaky fingertips to the glass. Nothing happened. He rubbed his hand over the glass until it squeaked only to find his own startled reflection staring back at him. Just his. No one else’s. He leaned closer to examine his face, touching and pulling at his cheeks where he’d seen the scars on the other face. Everything was as it should be. 

Arthur stepped back and paced in the small bathroom, glancing now and then into the mirror. But the other man did not return. Fresh in his memory, the sound of that voice and the image of those scars burned in his mind, puffy and uneven and badly healed. It haunted him. This was not the first time the thought of carving a permanent smile into his face had crossed Arthur’s mind. But it was the first time he’d seen it in front of him in such morbid detail. 

And though it was surely just a hallucination, a side-effect of some medication or his own unstable mental state, he wondered how those scars had gotten there. Perhaps, next time, he would ask.


	2. Super Rats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence.

Dusk was falling on another dreary day in the city. Arthur had just left the the pharmacy after picking up a refill of his prescriptions and hadn't gotten more than a block away when he was accosted by two men on the street. 

"What's in the bag?" asked the first. "Anything good?"

"Got anything for us?" said the other. "How 'bout we take a look."

They were bigger than Arthur and in better shape. Neither of them looked especially needy for cash judging by the high-end shoes they wore and the Rolex on one of their wrists. Or maybe they were especially prolific muggers. 

"Nothing you'd want," Arthur mumbled, fighting back the involuntary urge to laugh. He tucked the bag into his jacket and tried to walk the other way but the men were persistent about stealing his medications. They flanked his sides and forcibly tried to pry the bag from his arms. It would have been so easy to just let the bag go in exchange for his personal safety. But while Arthur's meds may have done little to help him, they seemed to help his mother with whom he shared them, so letting go wasn't an option. 

Arthur ducked his head and backed up quickly to break away from them. A hand grabbed him by the hood and a fist collided with his rib cage but Arthur wormed out of their grasp and fled down the sidewalk. The muggers, taken aback at how nimble he was, swore and gave chase. A few heads turned in his direction as Arthur passed them by but no one bothered to do or say anything. They simply moved out of the way and ignored the crime taking place. Arthur was used to never getting help. The only friends he could truly count on were his own two feet as they beat down the sidewalk.

A glance over his shoulder told him the muggers were closing in and Arthur turned sharply into the street. He weaved through the oncoming traffic amidst honking horns and angry shouts, narrowly avoiding being struck. This slowed down his attackers a little but it didn't stop them. A car passed him too close, clipping his side and spinning Arthur around, but he kept going. On the other side of the street, he ducked into a dark alleyway. The trash had been collecting there and made the alley so narrow in places that only one person could squeeze through at a time. Arthur did his best to knock over bags of trash behind him to further slow his attackers but the effort hardly seemed worth it. Nothing seemed to stop them from wanting to mug him or beat him or both.

Arthur headed deeper into the dark labyrinth of alleyways where the super rats were said to thrive. In the corner of his eye he thought he saw dark shapes moving in the piled mounds of garbage. He turned a corner where the narrow walkway opened up into a wider alley and collided head on with a man in the dark. But it wasn't just any man. It was a clown. His face was coated in cracked white paint, blackened eye sockets runny and ghoulish in the shadows. What stood out most, however, was the sanguine smile painted over deep scars that disfigured his face. For a moment Arthur was stunned by what he saw, but the sounds of encroaching footsteps broke him from his stupor and he fled down the alley. His pursuers arrived shortly after where they too encountered the clown. One of them, thinking it was Arthur, lashed out with a right hook that caught the clown square in the jaw. 

Realizing that he'd inadvertently dragged an innocent bystander into this mess, Arthur skidded to a halt, his feet nearly sliding out from under him on the filthy pavement. He looked back down the alley in time to see the fist connect with the clown's scarred face. As many times as it had happened to him, it didn't mean he wanted to see it happen to someone else. Perhaps, if he was a man of greater courage, he might have revealed his location so they would continue their pursuit of him and leave this other guy alone. Instead, all he could do was watch helpless and regretful from a distance.

The clown barely stumbled, even after taking that direct blow to the face. His head was flung to one side but he didn't fall. He simply stood there for a moment as he regained his bearings, his head still stuck in its turned position. Arthur's assailants looked surprised at having attacked the wrong person, surprised and completely unapologetic.

"Who the fuck?" One of them started. 

"Get a load of this freak!" The other laughed.

They didn't notice Arthur pressed against the wall as he watched from the alley some distance behind the clown. They seemed more amused at having found a new target.

The clown merely blinked his eyes, worked his jaw and then turned his head forward again to face his attackers, no worse for wear. His eyes were on them, glittering in their runny sockets and sharp as knives. With a roll of his shoulders, the clown tipped his head sideways and the vertebrae in his neck popped audibly. Then he wet his sanguine lips and spoke.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you... not to call people names?" The clown's voice oozed like oil through the night air, calm yet replete with the promise of danger. It sent a shiver down Arthur's spine just as it did the first time he'd heard it. 

The two attackers laughed and shared a glance as if to regain their courage. Between the two of them they mustered up enough confidence to circle around the clown.

"What are you gonna do about it, clown freak?" One of them taunted. "You gonna show us a magic trick?" Laughing, he took hold the lapels of the clown's dark overcoat in his fists while his partner tried to grab the clown from behind. 

Before either one of them could realize their mistake, the assault rapidly backfired.

"Oh, sure!" answered the clown. "Let's start with this one."

He grabbed the face of the attacker in front of him and slammed his head into it, crown-first, shattering his nose instantly. The man stumbled away clutching his face as blood poured out between his fingers. The other attacker, thinking he'd learned from the mistakes of the first, found an empty liquor bottle in the surrounding mountains of trash. Emboldened by his acquisition of a weapon, he charged at the clown with intentions of bludgeoning him.

The clown was quicker. He stomped his foot once on the pavement and whirled around. Something metallic glinted from the toe of his shoe before it was plunged deep into the abdomen of his assailant with a swift and solid kick. The second man fell to his knees clutching his abdomen with a gurgling cough. A deep, almost demonic growl tore out of the clown's throat as he grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and slammed his head repeatedly into the edge of a steel dumpster overflowing with trash, over and over again, furiously, until the body fell limp. 

Arthur watched the scene of merciless brutality unfold before him with a sense of joyous wonder. He couldn't believe what he was seeing! But his wonder quickly turned to an icy stab of fear when a gunshot rang out in the alley. The man with the busted nose had gathered enough wits about him to pull out a handgun and fired it at the clown. Arthur ducked instinctively at the sound and pushed closer to the wall. Now would be a good time to run away but Arthur couldn't bear to leave yet. Not until he knew the clown was okay. 

The bullet missed. The clown jerked his head around at a breakneck speed toward the gunman and ducked down as another shot rang out. This one missed as well. Before a third could come, the clown picked up the liquor bottle previously meant to bludgeon him and sent it hurdling end over end until it hit its mark square in the shooter's collarbone. The man fell back into the trash as glass and bone shattered. Wasting no time, the clown drew a knife from his pocket and crossed the alley with a frenetic skip in his step. He kicked and stomped on the screaming man several times, every movement filled with reckless feral abandon. Then his shoe slipped on the trash and he fell upon the man, blade-first, plunging it into his throat. Silence filled the alley. 

From his hiding place, Arthur had witnessed the whole thing start to finish and was rubber-necking shamelessly. Part of him wanted to flee at the sight of the carnage before him. Another part wanted to pump his fist into the air and let out a cheering shout as the clown rose up from the trash, knife in hand, unscathed. When the clown turned his ghoulish face to look at him, Arthur realized the time to run was now. He did the sensible thing and fled down the alley as quickly as he could.

He couldn't tell if the clown was behind him or not. If he was, Arthur couldn't hear his footfalls. Regardless of whether he was being pursued, he continued to run and weave his way through torturous side-alleys until he was met with a dead end. Tall iron bars of a padlocked gate blocked his way forward and Arthur was forced to go back the direction he came. However, as he turned around, he saw the clown step into view at the end of the alley. Arthur averted his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He was trapped with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. From the corner of his eye he could see the clown standing there, could see the white of his face in the shadows.

The clown's head lifted slightly as his gaze slid over the sight before him, almost aloof. He looked like a cat who'd discovered a wounded canary and was taking his time toying with his prey. Then, with slow deliberate steps, the clown prowled closer.

Arthur pressed his lips together, trying to suppress the sounds from coming up his throat but it was a losing battle. His body convulsed once, twice. Then came the laughter, loud and unstoppable.

The clown paused. "What's so funny?" his voice cut through the darkness. "Am I a clown to you?"

Arthur shook his head while laughter wracked his body. He wanted to run but to do so would mean passing the clown in close quarters and he knew he wouldn't make it. His options for escape were nonexistent. He raised his hands defensively and pressed his back against the immovable wall behind him. His bag of medications fell to the wayside. 

"N-no! Please! I- I'm sorr— I can't—" Arthur tried to explain himself between gasps but it was no use. The sobbing laughter kept coming in wave after painful wave, rendering him unable to speak and barely able to breathe. His abdominal muscles spasmed and his chest ached. He felt like he was going to vomit or pass out at any minute. 

"That's some laugh you have there," the clown remarked as he studied Arthur with keen eyes. It became quickly apparent to him that the laughter was not a voluntary response. It was a response, instead, to high levels of stress. This knowledge did nothing to stop him from stalking ever closer to his cornered victim. The knife in his hand glinted red before disappearing into his pocket.

Curling into himself, Arthur desperately tried to restrain the convulsive laughter by clutching both hands over his mouth. Then he braced for the cruelty he knew was sure to come. It always did. Tears stung his eyes as the footsteps crunched closer and closer over loose gravel. Leather clad hands encircled his wrists in their firm grip and pulled his hands away from his mouth with an overpowering force. Arthur kept his head down, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to swallow back the sobs. And though he refused to open his eyes, he could feel the man's presence just inches away from him, could smell the scent of gasoline and blood and something chemical on his clothes, could even feel a warm gust of his breath against his bowed forehead.

"Don't fight it!" The clown spoke in a hushed, insistent growl that rang in Arthur's ears like thunder. "Just—" he let out his breath, his tone softening considerably. "...Just let it out. Let it out."

Arthur had no choice but to comply. Tears streaming down his face, he sucked air into his lungs and threw his head back with another explosive burst of laughter. The hands remained locked around his wrists, allowing only the reassurance that they no longer held a knife. 

"Thaaaat's it," the clown urged almost comfortingly. He watched quietly as his captive laughed uncontrollably for what felt like an eternity until Arthur was breathless and wobbling in his grip. When the laughter subsided, he spoke in a whisper, "Hey... Here. Look at me." 

By this point Arthur was panting and aching for breath. Reluctant to look up, he lifted his head just a bit, peering up at the other clown through stinging tears and tousled hair. Once again, he was met with those impossibly dark eyes he saw in the bathroom mirror.

Something in Arthur's leonine gaze ignited a dark twinkle in the other clown's eyes. He could see pain and suffering there, he could see anguish. He could see anger. Arthur had the look of a malnourished circus animal that had been caged for too long. It was time to open the cage.

As a reward for his compliance, the clown freed Arthur's wrists. He raised his gloved hands as if to say 'See? No knife.' But whatever small bit of relief Arthur might have felt was short-lived as those hands were now reaching for his face. Cool leather wiped at the tears on Arthur's cheeks. The soothing gesture felt almost cruel in how gentle it was and made Arthur flinch even more than might a slap to the face. A short grunt of a laugh wormed its way up Arthur's throat and past his closed lips.

"Shh-shh. Listen, you don't have to be afraid. I won't kill you," the clown assured him. The thick scar tissue on either side of his mouth buckled as he smiled. "I couldn't kill a man with a laugh like that, not even if I wanted to. No, you have too much..." Painted lips drew back over bared teeth, "—_potential_." 

Just when Arthur thought he was getting the laughter under control, the air left his lungs again in a drawn-out wheeze that left him feeling winded and dizzy. He buckled over and began to sink to his knees. But before he could collapse face-down onto cold pavement, the clown wrapped an arm around his torso and hoisted him upright. Even his bag of prescriptions was picked up and stuffed back into his hand. Arthur hung sideways in the clown's arm like a wet sack, unable to hold himself up under his own power. Yet somehow his feet moved forward as the clown started to walk.

"Alright, time to go," said the clown with some effort, noting the sound of distant sirens. His black eyes darted methodically in their blackened sockets. It reminded Arthur of the Kit-Cat clock in his mother's apartment, constantly scanning the terrain and aware of all things at once.

After some prompting, Arthur managed to point the way to his mother's apartment building. Together, they began the journey there through a maze of trash-filled alleys, past baying dogs, past homeless onlookers sheltering beneath an overpass, past rowdy drunks milling around outside a bar looking for a fight. Their angry intoxicated stares made Arthur uncomfortable. The clown kept his arm wrapped around Arthur's torso, keeping him up and moving. A few times Arthur burst into laughter along the way but as he accepted his situation and settled his weight more comfortably into the clown's side, his discomfort and his laughter began to fade. His hand gripped the clown's shoulder as they walked.

About halfway through the journey, the clown turned his head to Arthur and asked, "You wanna know a secret?"

Arthur forced a quiet reply, "...Okay." 

The clown wet his lips. "See, I was a prisoner once, just like you. I used to hold everything back so that I would fit into the little world everyone thinks you ought to fit into. I used to pretend to be what everyone else wanted me to be. I was miserable but they told me that if I just put on a happy face, everything would be fine. One day I couldn't take it anymore. One day— I **EXPLODED**. I saw how meaningless it all was and I laughed so hard my sides split open." His tongue ran along the scars inside his mouth, emphasizing them, making them protrude even more grotesquely. "Now I never hold back. And you know what else? Now I'm always smiling." 

Arthur listened. His wide-eyed stare never left the clown's face as he spoke. Something in the clown's words struck a chord in him that no one had ever touched on before. The corner of his lips twitched up.

"Hey," Arthur was saying before he could stop himself. "...People call me 'freak' too."

The clown's gaze lingered on Arthur before turning away with a convincingly sorrowful expression. "It's a funny world we live in." He shook his head. "A guy gets called a freak just because he smiles too much."

"Yeah..." Arthur commiserated. "Maybe one day I'll explode too." 

Soon they reached a long flight of concrete stairs leading up to the next block, the same stairs Arthur trudged up and down miserably day after day after day. Together, he and the clown each placed a foot on the first step and began the slow ascent.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

It was an endless climb but with the clown at his side, supporting him, it felt a little easier.

Arthur drifted into a daze. He'd never had such prolonged physical contact with a stranger before, or anyone really, aside from maybe his mother. But now here he was in the arm of this stranger who was all but carrying him home and for no discernible reason. No one had ever bothered to help him before. No one had ever told him he had 'potential' before. He didn't understand it. Nothing made sense. After the brutality Arthur had seen firsthand, he'd been terrified of what this clown might do to him. But now he was actually starting to feel safer than he ever had before.

Eventually, they reached the apartment complex. Amber light from a streetlamp illuminated the front walkway and Arthur could see for the first time how sharply the clown was dressed. He wore a dark violet suit that matched his leather gloves, a green waistcoat, dress shirt and tie. A silver chain from a pocket watch glittered at his pinstriped thigh. His hair hung in loose curls past his chin and it was dyed a dull yellow-green. He was like a dirty rainbow. 

Arthur took a step toward the main entrance but the clown remained on the sidewalk and would not approach any further. This was where they parted ways. Before that could happen, Arthur finally worked up the courage to ask the clown a question:

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Take those guys."

"It's like I told you," the clown replied. "I don't hold back." 

With a head full of thoughts, Arthur went up to the building's main entrance and paused. A part of him wanted to invite the clown inside knowing full well it was a bad idea. He could tell his mom it was a friend from work. Already, he could imagine her reaction: '_Arthur, I didn't know you had any friends_.' And he would smile and say, '_Well I do now, mom! I do now._' Arthur turned to say something to the clown but the sidewalk was empty. The clown was gone.


	3. Bathroom Waltz

Arthur Fleck ran into the dingy public restroom outside the subway station and slammed the door shut behind him. Dropping his duffel bag, he rested there with hands against the door, head bowed and chest heaving. Murder. He'd just committed murder. His heart was racing. His head was spinning. He didn't know what to feel. He felt like he was of two minds trapped together in the same head and he didn't know how to reconcile it. So he closed his eyes, shut off his mind and let his body move on its own. Slow and methodical he danced alone in the restroom under the flicker of pale light.

When he opened his eyes he saw himself in the dirty mirror, face bloodied and arms outstretched as if he stood upon an empty stage. By now his breathing was calm and his heart rate had slowed. He'd just committed murder and he felt more in control of his life than at any previous point. The gun was still warm in his pocket. He felt powerful. It was overwhelming. It was scary. 

The silence was shattered when a scuffing sound rang out in the bathroom. He was not alone. Arthur whirled around, his gun drawn and aimed into the shadows. From the darkness came the sounds of footsteps and of two hands applauding. Then a familiar scarred face slid out from behind the stalls and directly into Arthur's line of sight. The clown, unfazed by the barrel of a gun raised at him, continued the steady beat of his hands as he stepped out of the gloom and into the tenuous light.

Seeing that face, Arthur lowered his weapon with a sigh of relief and the tension melted out of his shoulders. 

"Bravo," said the clown wearing a most amused smirk. "You didn't hold back. You killed three people." His eyes glittered dangerously. "I always knew you had potential." 

Arthur looked down as he toyed with the gun in his hands. "I exploded a little..." he confessed quietly. "And you know what? ...It felt good." 

The clown placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders and Arthur found himself turned to face the mirror. There were two clowns in the mirror now— Arthur in front with blood still staining his face and the other clown standing behind him, his ghoulish visage hovering just over Arthur's shoulder. The other clown raised a gloved finger and pointed it at Arthur's reflection in the mirror.

"See that guy?" His breath tickled Arthur's ear. "That. That's the new you." The clown took a step back and gestured toward Arthur with outstretched arms as if presenting a new guest onstage. 

Arthur gazed into the mirror. His own eyes gazed back, the same gloomy eyes he saw in the mirror every day, but this time he saw something unfamiliar in them. These were no longer the eyes of an innocent man but the eyes of a killer, absent of remorse. He stared steadfast and unblinking into those eyes. 

_The new you._

"I was tired of feeling so helpless all the time," he spoke without looking away from the reflection. 

"Things are gonna be different now, you'll see," promised the clown. "You've started something. And there's no stopping it."

Arthur's gaze dropped down to the gun he still held in his hand. In a moment of uncertainty, he reached forward as if to place it on the bathroom counter, then hesitantly returned it to his pocket. 

"I guess you're right," he said and turned to the clown, the beginnings of a smile forming on his bloodied face. "I'm Arthur. What's your name?" 

The clown's eyes danced away as he played coy. "Uhh, ...Smiley." 

"C'mon, what's your real name?" Arthur pressed. He'd wanted to know this mystery clown's name since day one but had always been too cowardly to ask. Now, after killing those Wallstreet jerks, he felt a surge of confidence. It didn't occur to him that maybe the clown didn't have a real name.

The clown rolled his jaw and pressed his lips together as he considered his words carefully. Finally, his dark eyes rolled in their sockets to meet Arthur's gaze. "Just call me... J," he said, baring rows of discolored teeth.

It was clear this would be J's final answer and Arthur was satisfied to leave it at that. However, his curious gaze still lingered on the clown. Hesitant at first, he reached toward J's face where a large scar curled midway up his cheek. He wanted to touch it but a strong feeling deep in his gut warned him not to do it, the same foreboding sensation one might feel when reaching into a lion's maw. His fingers veered away from the scar as if to graze the clown's greenish curls. Instead, Arthur snapped his hand back to his side at the last moment. It was rude, after all, to touch another man like that, real or otherwise.

J watched Arthur's every movement with keen eyes. He could see what Arthur was trying to do, could practically see his thoughts. As if to complete the intended action, he raked leather-clad fingers through his unruly green curls. Never mindful of anyone else's personal space, he took Arthur's hand and clasped it between his own with a slap of palms.

"Here— Put 'er there," said J as he gave Arthur's hand a firm shake and a pat. Solid. Real as could be. He didn't let go.

"So. Who taught'ya to dance?" J asked. Taking hold of Arthur's other hand, he tugged on it and began to sway rhythmically. 

Arthur fell into step almost immediately, "No one. It just comes outta me." 

J slid one shoe over the floor in a wide sidestep. Then he shifted his weight smoothly from one foot to the other and circled in closer, his arm encircling Arthur's waist. He straightened out of his perpetually stooped shoulders, instantly transforming his stance from feral prowler to dashing gentleman. Despite all his frenetic energy, J was nimble on his feet and could fully imitate the grace of a dancer.

Together they waltzed across the floor with sweeping steps over gritty tile. Arthur was dipped low, his eyelids closed and head flung back as he kicked a foot skyward. His hands left his partner, trusting J's steady hand beneath his back to keep him from plummeting to the floor. Then J brought him effortlessly upright. Their hands met above Arthur's head and Arthur found himself twirling round and around and around. As he came to a stop, he once again felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket. 

"Hey, J? Can I ask you a favor?" Arthur turned to press the revolver handle into J's abdomen. On his face was a sheepish expression. "Can you hold onto this?"

J looked down with feigned surprise. He could tell by the weight of the weapon in his hands that it was out of ammo. "For me? Awh, you shouldn't have," he growled playfully. His gloved hand patted Arthur's cheek and then pinched it, smudging his face paint a bit. J's eyes glanced toward the door and his expression became stern. 

"Now," he grabbed the back of Arthur's head and pulled him in close, so close that they would share the same breath as he spoke. "Time is of the essence. Step lively."

Arthur blinked at him in dizzy confusion as his head was released. 

J, however, was adamant as he turned toward the door. A swift kick sent it flying open and he stood in the doorway, holding it open expectantly, "I said skadoodle. Get out. **GO!**" 

Shouldering his duffel bag, Arthur ducked beneath J's arm and ran. He lifted his knees high as he ran through the streets and past trash filled alleyways without pause. Behind him he heard the distant wail of sirens in the night. Upon reaching his floor at the apartment building, he marched through the hallway and stopped outside a door that wasn't his. He raised his fist to knock but the action never followed. His fist uncurled and he splayed his hand upon his neighbor's door without a sound. Panting, he leaned forward until his forehead came to rest against the back of his hand on the door. For a long moment he stood this way, his eyes closed and heart pounding. Finally he stepped back, swept a hand through his hair and continued down the hallway to his own apartment. 

The next day started like any other. Arthur prepared breakfast for his mother and served it to her at her favorite chair in the living room. The morning news was on but no mention yet of any murders in the area. Last night he'd killed three men and no one in the world knew it. No one expect for J. The rest of the world was still asleep, oblivious. Most oblivious of them all was his mother who had yet to discover her son's recent firing from his job. For her it was just another normal day. 

Arthur sat at his writing desk with a cigarette and remnants of last night's adrenaline rush still working its way through his system. His knee jiggled and he couldn't stop grinning as he opened up his joke book. It didn't take long for him to realize that someone had vandalized it. Small flashes of red jumped out at him like bright smears of blood as he turned the pages. Arthur's knees froze and he leaned over the book, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, he flipped through the pages. Drawn over the faces clipped from newspapers and magazines were crude smiles in red ink. Even his favorite clipping — the topless lady who resembled his neighbor — wore a big red smile that slashed across her face. Beside her someone had written the words 'Hubba hubba' and 'I see you sinning'. 

Frowning harder, a slight tremble wracked his body. He drew in a loud breath through his nose and continued turning the pages. On one page was a clipping of a plate of spaghetti from a magazine pasted beneath the words 'Don't get upsetti.' Another page had a news headline rearranged and spliced together with pieces of other articles. The headline now read, 'Thomas Wayne Demands Super Rats Pay Their Taxes'. Arthur reached a page with a photo of Thomas Wayne clipped from a newspaper, the head of whom Arthur had purposely removed himself. In place of the missing head, someone had pasted a picture of a crying baby's face.

Caught in a battle of anger and amusement, Arthur's scowl twitched on his lips before letting up into a grin. It was hard not to find entertainment in the edits. To his great fortune, the pages of Arthur's handwritten words were left mostly untouched except for the occasional word traced over in angry red ink as if for emphasis. But when he came upon the final edit, Arthur was left mystified. It was an image of a mailbox engulfed in flames of red ink. Beneath it was a message that read 'Special Delivery'. 

Arthur never had mail but as he headed down later that morning on his way to cleaning out his work locker, he decided to do something he never did before and checked his mail early. It felt crazy. He didn't expect to find anything but when he unlocked the mailbox and reached inside, there was something there. Arthur pulled it out carefully. It was the revolver, wrapped in newspaper and fully reloaded.


	4. Subway Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm introducing a new character in this chapter, the woman collectively known as "subway girl". Not sure if she'll be showing up in future chapters or not. As far as I know, she is still unnamed in the film so I decided to name her after one of my favorite songs by Massive Attack.

Backstage at Pogo's comedy club, Arthur smoothed a hand over his hair as he nervously awaited his introduction. The previous comedian had just finished up his act to a round of applause and was leaving the stage. Now an announcer took the mic and began to introduce the next act. When Arthur heard his name, he headed down the hallway that lead out onto the main floor of the club. After ascending onto the stage, Arthur approached the mic and looked out over a small sea of dim red lamps where an unseen audience sat enshrouded in a haze of darkness. Arthur's heart was pounding. He'd practiced doing stand-up comedy at home in his empty living room, but never in front of a live audience. The lights of the stage were so hot and bright, it felt like an alien sun beating down on him in the black void of outer space. Aside from Sophie and her encouraging smile, he could see no other faces in the crowd, just shadowy figures that shifted in the gloom. Burning alone under the spotlight, Arthur opened his joke book and began his routine. 

Seated in the audience was a young woman, her long black hair worn straight and loose. Her fingers toyed idly with an empty glass on the table beneath the dim glow of the lamp. Seated beside her was her female friend and co-worker who whispered into her ear, "Angel, do you want another drink?" to which Angel shook her head. Her eyes were fixed on the stage. The comedian on stage seemed to be having difficulties. He couldn't get through a single line of material without interrupting himself. Every time he tried to speak, he would start laughing mid sentence. 

The sound struck Angel like a cold bolt of lightning. There was no mistaking that laughter. It was the same laugh she'd heard on the subway that unforgettable night. It was him. Angel sat unmoving, unblinking as she watched the man onstage succumb to stage-fright and break down into a laughing, wheezing, sobbing mess. As this went on for several agonizing minutes, others in the audience around her began to boo and jeer until the man was escorted off the stage, his face buried in the crook of his arm while his body was wracked with unrelenting, choking laughter. She realized then it wasn't just an act. He couldn't control the laughter, neither on the stage nor on the subway.

She remembered that night as clear as day. She remembered how scared she was sitting across from those three businessmen on the subway. She tried to ignore their taunts and harassment but their antics only seemed to escalate. She remembered looking around helplessly and making eye contact with a man dressed in a clown costume several seats down, remembered seeing the sad look in his watery eyes. For a moment she thought he was going to speak out in her defense, but then he only turned away and laughed. Feeling more alone than ever and unsafe in her surroundings, she quickly relocated to a different train car, praying that the three men wouldn't follow her there. The last thing she remembered hearing as she left the train car was the clown's haunting laughter and the men's increasingly rowdy taunts being directed at their new target. 

In the next car over, Angel sat shaking in her seat, her book clutched to her pounding chest. 'It's okay,' she tried to tell herself. 'This kind of thing happens all the time. It could have been worse. Deep breaths.' She opened her book and tried to read but couldn't focus on the words. It wasn't long after that she'd heard the first gunshots. As the subway rolled to a stop, she could hear a man's screams. Then more gunshots. At this point Angel was crouched down in her seat and trying to decide whether to run or to stay as still as possible. The screams continued but they were growing distant now. Carefully, she raised her head just high enough to peek through the window. Not her best decision in retrospect, but in the moment curiosity had prevailed. What she saw through the window she wouldn't soon forget. She saw it as it happened — the businessman limping toward the stairs of the train station, the clown following after him at a brisk and determined pace, the gun raised in the clown's hand. Bang-bang-bang! 

And she wouldn't forget her own initial reaction to seeing the corpse of the businessman who'd previously harassed her, sprawled out and bleeding on the steps. _Take that, asshole_. 

"That was pretty bad wasn't it?" Her friend was saying beside her at the table. Startled out of her flashback, Angel swallowed and willed calm into her voice, "I think I'm ready to leave." 

Thomas Wayne had just finished a rally at Gotham city hall and Angel's pen moved furiously over the pages of her notebook to cover the key points of his campaign speech as well as capture the response of the crowd. A growing faction of protesters had begun showing up at each of Wayne's campaign events holding signs and wearing clown masks. She stopped to speak with a few of them, jotting down their responses before rushing to catch the next train. Her boss would want the article finished and on his desk this evening for release in tomorrow morning's paper.

The train car was mercifully empty save for herself and one final passenger who boarded at the last minute. Angel glanced up from her papers in time to see him squeeze through the door just as it was closing. He wore a rumpled gray suit and black leather gloves. His face was obscured behind one of the clown masks that were becoming a near ubiquitous sight around the city. Despite his obstructive attire, she could see he was young and rather handsomely built. He sat across the aisle and several seats down from her. Angel was leery of being alone on the train with a man but her attention soon returned to the notebook on her lap. She was so absorbed in her work, someone could have probably launched a whole carton of french fries at her and she wouldn't have noticed. After some time, she finally put down her pen and flexed her aching hand and wrist. 

The train hit a particularly rough patch of track, jolting its passengers and sending Angel's pen rolling down and across the aisle, only coming to a stop when it met the shoe of the masked man. His shoes were of an unusual style, but even more so was the hint of purple argyle sock visible in the gap between his shoe and pant leg. The man bent in his seat to pick up the pen, then stretched out his arm to return it to its owner. Angel tried to hide her embarrassment as she retrieved it, "Thank you. Sorry." 

The man nodded. He'd been careful not to sit directly across from her, knowing it would only serve to intimidate her and make her clam up. Instead he had positioned himself a few seats down from her. It would feel less confrontational that way. 

"So, you work for the Gotham Times," he remarked.

Angel realized he must have seen her at the rally. Looking up at him, she answered, "...Yes." 

The stranger rested his elbows upon his knees and peered at her curiously through the dark eye holes of his mask, "Covering Wayne's campaign trail?"

"For now." Angel's eyes were back on her notes again.

"You know where he's gonna be next Friday night?" The man asked. "I wanna have a little word with him, face to face."

Angel's response came automatically, "He's holding a town hall meeting Friday morning. He has nothing scheduled in the evening."

"Ah," he said. There was a momentary break of silence and then, "...I heard he likes the theater."

"Yeah. He attends often... with his family." Angel swallowed. Had she said too much? It wasn't like the Wayne family kept their outings a secret from the public. Still, she didn't know this man's intentions or why he continued to conceal his face behind that mask. Something didn't bode well.

They sat quietly for a minute as the train rattled on. Angel focused her attention on her work but she had a feeling there would be more. She wasn't wrong.

At length the man spoke again, "So, uh, what do you think of Gotham's killer clown?" 

At the mention of the killer clown, Angel felt her stomach twist with anxiety. As a news columnist and a witness, she could have written a sensational article about what she'd seen but had chosen not to. She wanted to remain as anonymous as possible in the subway shootings case. The police had questioned her on the night of the murders. Did she see anything suspicious? Could she describe the suspect? She'd given them a clear description of the clown's make-up and wig but not a proper description of the man himself. She wouldn't have recognized him without his make-up anyway. 

Until last night. Now she knew his name and his face. She had every moral obligation to go to the police and reveal the killer clown's true identity. And yet she hadn't come forth with the information that would finally put Arthur Fleck into custody. 

She answered carefully, "...I'm sure he had his reasons." 

"He killed three people. He could be hiding anywhere behind one of these masks," the man gestured to his masked face. "Do you think he deserves to face the music?" 

She looked up at him, meeting his impossibly dark gaze through the mask, "Are you with the police?"

"I'd be a clown before I'd be a cop," he replied, amusement strong in his voice. 

"Government?" she guessed.

The greenish hair of his scalp crept upward, alluding to his surprised expression concealed beneath. Through the eye openings of the mask, Angel could see a dark glimmer in his eyes, playful yet dangerous. It sent a chill down her spine.

"You're a smart cookie," he said. Then, leaning back in his seat, he dropped his hands atop his thighs. "But I don't work for anyone." Not the government. Not the U.S. military. Not anymore.

Angel's gaze lingered on him for a moment before dropping back to the papers in her lap. Finally her answer came, "...I think he just needs help."

The subway brakes squealed as the train pulled into the next station.

"That's a fair assessment," he said. "I like you." 

Angel glanced up at him as the subway slowly lurched to a stop. The masked man was facing away from her now and at this angle she could see part of his face from the side. Her brow scrunched as her eyes caught something unusual. Peeking out from the edge of his mask she thought she could see something. Messy white face paint. It extended beyond his face and was smeared into his hair and on his ears. When the doors opened, the man stood and slipped out. Breathing a sigh of relief, Angel slid a hand beneath her bangs and rubbed her forehead. 

The evening hours had approached and a cold rain fell from the sky onto her open umbrella. As she passed by a local doughnut shop, she happened to look through the rain battered window and spot a familiar face inside. Angel froze in her steps. She almost couldn't believe it at first but her eyes did not deceive. It was him. Arthur Fleck. 

Alone at one of the booths, Arthur sat halfway turned in his seat and smiling toward the back of the diner like he was waiting for someone. After a moment of wistful gazing, he faced forward in his seat. On the table before him sat an empty cup of coffee beside an ashtray in which his cigarette was smoldering. Sophie had gone to the restroom to freshen up and in her absence, he took out his joke book and scanned the pages for something he hoped she would like. In his search he happened upon a new message from J scrawled in runny red ink: _'She's on the dark side’_. 

Arthur's lips moved silently as he stared at the page trying to make sense of the mystifying words. That was when he heard a voice beside the table where there now stood a young woman with long, straight black hair and a fringe of bangs across her forehead. 

"Excuse me," she asked. "Are you Arthur Fleck?"

Startled, he looked up at her like a deer in the headlights. Had he seen this woman before? Something about her seemed familiar. His dark brows lifted above wide green eyes."Yes?"

The woman glanced down and then toward the empty seat across from him at the booth. "May I?" 

It dawned on Arthur that he should stop staring and use his manners. "...Oh! Sure." Closing his joke book, he placed it on his lap under the table and smiled awkwardly. 

Angel sat across from him. She expected to find the seat beneath her still warm but it was not. 

"Sorry to interrupt. My name is Angel Romero," she began. It took some effort to continue in a steady voice but Angel pushed on, "I... saw you at Pogo's the other night and I knew you— your, um, laugh was familiar."

"Yeah?" Arthur looked excited. She'd seen his act! But soon his smile faded and his brows came together as he began to realize where he'd seen the woman before. It wasn't at Pogo's Comedy Club. It was on the subway. That night when...

"Oh my god," be blurted out. Snatching up his cigarette, he bent his head over his hand, visibly shaken. Strands of dark hair fell over his forehead as his body rocked forward. A desperate puff of his cigarette brought only the taste of heat and ash to his tongue. With a sharp cough, he hastily took it out and turned the cigarette around the right way.

Across from him, Angel sat rigidly in her seat, shoulders drawn in tight and fingers held to her lips. She thought she'd been prepared for his reaction but apparently not. Swallowing, she placed a hand on the table and leaned forward. "Arthur, it's okay," she spoke in hushed tones, trying to calm him. "I'm not going to tell anyone." 

"Oh my god..." Arthur repeated around the cigarette in his mouth. He was a bundle of fidgety nerves and jittery knees who refused to lift his head and meet her gaze. "I'm- I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Angel opened her mouth to speak but the breath was caught in her throat. Arthur continued in a shaky, mumbling voice.

"When those guys were bothering you—" His wet eyes fluttered up at her from beneath the lines of his forehead and disheveled hair. "I wanted to help. I wanted to do something. But I just... I was—" Arthur felt his abdomen convulse. "I was too afr—" he tried to keep it down, but the laughter came up. "Too afra—ha haha ha ha ha!"

He rocked back and forward in his seat then turned toward the window, unable to control his laughter. Someone knew he was the killer clown and he suddenly felt more visible than ever. Unable to speak or stifle his laughter, Arthur did the only thing he could think to do. With a trembling hand, he drew the card from his pocket explaining his condition and placed it on the table before Angel, who bent her head to read it.

The card only confirmed what she already knew and Angel leaned further over the table, never more grateful for the shop being so empty tonight. 

"I was afraid too," she spoke just above a whisper. "And you did help. Without you, who knows what might've happened. I could have ended up in the hospital, or worse. And that's why I'm here. I wanted to thank you." Her words seemed to have an effect and Arthur's nervous twitching and laughter faded. 

"Really?" He sat catching his breath and looking at her like she had just pulled him out of deep water. 

Angel nodded, her eyebrows raised in earnest beneath her bangs.

Incredulous, Arthur sniffed and blinked his eyes. He couldn't believe his luck. She knew what he'd done on the subway yet she was still on his side. The dark side. 

"Anytime," Arthur said bashfully. "I mean—" He caught himself. A grin spread across his face as he realized his unfortunate choice of words, but Arthur wasn't about to apologize. Leaning back in his seat, he raked a hand through his hair and spoke with more confidence than he ever thought himself capable. "Anytime."

Angel drew her lips between her teeth to stymie a smile and held a finger to her lips. This conversation had to remain confidential.

Mirroring her gesture, Arthur held a finger to his lips as well, his eyes alight with mischief. In the back of his mind, he knew this was wrong. He should be feeling remorse, horror and anxiety. Instead he felt nothing but giddy. 

"I'll leave you alone," Angel said, looking around. "I see you're waiting for someone."

She left the diner and Arthur sat smiling at the booth, his arms spread out to either side of him along the seat behind him. Not long after, Sophie returned.

"You look happy," she remarked, smiling suspiciously as she took the seat across from him. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," he answered softly. "I'm always happy." 

The sparkle in her eyes was both playful and utterly disbelieving. "Now there's a joke if I ever heard one." Sophie picked up Arthur's card off the table and held it upright between her fingers. 

"Keep it," Arthur said, turning toward his cigarette with a smirk. "I won't be needing it anymore."


End file.
